


anchor

by kigamin



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Top surgery, mentions of learning disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29569032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kigamin/pseuds/kigamin
Summary: Now a college student, Gon stumbles upon his old high school crush and promises himself this time he won't let go. [gift fic] [Killugon]
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	anchor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avtorSola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avtorSola/gifts).



**anchor.**

* * *

Bus rides on monday mornings always feel like my last respite, the last rampart before the soul-crushing mathematics classes. 

I hate math. It’s not an understatement, and it makes up like half of my personality at this point. It’s actually a two-way kind of hate, because if I were math, I would feel pretty disrespected to be so misunderstood by a boy who spends so much time trying to understand me. 

Because, yes. I hate math, because I don’t get math. I study math like crazy and I  _ still  _ don’t get math. It just doesn’t work. My brain won’t cooperate. To whoever decided to add letters in math? Yeah. This is for you. 

It sounds funny, but really, it’s not. I have so much work to do, I can't catch my breath during the ride. I spent the night up working on those exercises, desperate to find the same answer as my teacher, but I’m mortified to say I still don’t see how she obtained this result. The equations span across whole pages but the numbers hold no meaning to me. They crawl endlessly across the lines where my eyes don't follow. I try to make sense of them, to read them slowlier so I can at least know what I'm asked to calculate, but everything blurs into a mass of unknown. 

My therapist called it dyscalculia; my teacher calls it laziness. My aunt says it’s just a bad period to go through, that in college I’ll choose a major without math. I can’t tell her that the bad period has been going on since primary school. 

Thirty minutes until we get to school. 

_ Gon, you need to focus. Please, focus.  _

“You can use a Gauss elimination with pivoting here.”

I raise my eyes from the paper, glad to focus on literally anything else, until I see him. A boy my age with baby blue eyes and fluffy white hair. He’s dressed in a light purple hoodie that’s so big on him, it covers the biggest part of his hands. I blink, lost for a moment; I can’t remember what I was doing before; how did I miss such a beautiful person sitting next to me? “Eh?”

“Gauss? Algebra?”

That’s when I remember what he said, as if my brain had been buffering the words. “Oh, the pivoting,” I mumble, frowning as I rake through my brain for bits of the last lesson. “But where?”

He highlights a number and shows me the technique, one pale finger circling the pivot. I gasp. I still don't understand the math behind it but there's a pattern. I'm good with patterns. “Right there. Once you’ve found it you can work through the matrix more easily.”

I nod, one hand holding the copybook while the other fishes for my notes, the pen caught between my lips. I flip through the notes I took mechanically, just copying what was on the blackboard without understanding it, and it finally makes sense. I may manage to get a passing grade if I get this concept. “Wow, you’re right. Thanks.”

“Sure. Algebra has a lot of patterns if you don’t get the math behind it. Use colors to make it easier to see.”

I wonder why I never thought of that. I guess I was so lost I didn’t even know how to look for ways to get back on track. “I’ll do that. I’m Gon, by the way,” I say with a smile. I can’t tear my eyes off of him. He looks like a winter spirit passing for a human. 

“Killua,” he replies, and he smiles for the first time since we started talking. I feel myself drawn to that smile for reasons I still can’t decipher. 

I don’t know, at that moment, that I will have years with and without him to decipher that feeling. 

* * *

I see Killua regularly after that, always on the bus. We sit next to each other, and when I’m still doing my homework, he helps me however he can. The other students don’t talk to him, and he doesn’t say much about himself, but I do learn eventually that he has a sister, and I hear in a passing that he’s the son of Silva Zoldyck, the most renowned businessman in Hollowtown. 

I don’t really pay attention to the gossip about him, but I do get curious when I notice how distant he becomes once we get off the bus. It’s like he’s a whole different person. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. The rare times I see him around, he’s with his sister, and he avoids my gaze. It used to make me wonder if I had done anything to upset him until I realized he was like that with everyone. It has to be a boundary, so I accept it. It’s enough for me to enjoy our bus rides together. 

As the months pass, I end up dreading holidays, because they meant I couldn’t see him. Holidays, my only respite from math. It’s beyond me how I could crave someone’s presence so much I look forward to school for it. What is it about him that makes it worth suffering through my teachers’ classes? Through the inadequacy and the pressure and sensation to be the odd one out?

I just want to see that smile again. The way it lit up his eyes, like little fireflies dancing in a winter sky. 

It takes me a while then to understand I’m not just staring at his lips to expect a smile. There are reasons that seem as obscure as equations to me, except I never had to question them. I’ve never had a crush before Killua, I don’t know how to maneuver all that stuff. I just know I want to see him smile, and, though the feeling is still vague, to kiss him. 

He doesn’t give me time to process those feelings. 

After summer vacations that taught me what real patience was and made me yearn for the abilities to text and the courage to ask for his number, I found him on the bus like usual on the first day of school. The seat next to him was empty, so I sat there, hoping my excitement wasn't too obvious. He looked at me with tired eyes, strained a smile that seemed forced, yet at the same time relieved. 

That day, he was wearing a light blue sweater that matched his eyes. When he lifted his arms to take his phone, the sleeves slipped. Bruises, a discrete canvas of blue and purple and smudged green was staring back at me, like fingers engraved in his skin. I said nothing, but my mind raced. I pretended to not see it, but I knew he knew I had seen it. His smile died. 

“Don’t say anything,” he breathed. 

I nodded. “I won’t.”

A few weeks later, Killua was gone. 

* * *

The memory of him rushes back to me on a cold, windy day on my new campus. 

It’s been years since the last time I had to work with equations, and, funnily enough, my life has improved tenfold since then, and so did my grades. After graduating high school, enrolling for the local college, and completing the first three years of my degree, I moved out of Hollowtown, to York New City where I continue my studies in biology. 

York New has the kind of energy Hollowtown could never dream to have, even during Christmas. Everyone there is different. I see people from all over the planet, speaking all kinds of languages, expressing themselves however they want to. 

I find the same diversity on my campus. I meet new people, and the first thing I do is ask for their number. I can’t make the same mistakes I made and lose friends because I couldn’t ask for their number. 

But in a twist of fate, the reason I took this habit is right there, leaning against a wall with his phone in his hands. 

When I see him, my body reacts before I do, as if kissed by a patch of sun. Now that he is here in front of me, there is no doubt that I had feelings for him, and I wonder how I buried them all these years. 

He’s still as beautiful as ever. Moonlight hair, porcelain skin, and those baby blue eyes that would drive me crazy. He’s the same boy who would sit next to me on the bus when we were both still seventeen. But something has changed. He has traded his big hoodies and pastel sweaters with a leather jacket and a black t-shirt. I see the beginning of a tattoo hugging the side of his neck and plunging into his t-shirt. His jeans are torn, his boots look like they could stomp over an army, and I notice an undercut when the wind sweeps back his fluffy hair. 

He looks gorgeous, the same way a rose looks gorgeous in its nest of thorns. ‘Touch me, and you’ll bleed.’ 

I want to touch him anyway. Thread my fingers through his long locks that pool on his shoulders in pretty waves. Lock eyes with him and drown in that winter lake, forget anything exists until that soft coolness is all I can feel. 

I walk to his level, sense him stiffen even before I speak. As if he expects a blow that came far too many times. I think of the bruises underneath his sleeves. My throat tightens, but the words come out anyway. 

“Killua?” I call, and my heart drops to my heels when he raises a cold, deadly gaze toward me. 

But then, the cold melts into the boy I used to know. That forlorn look in his eyes, that subtle warmth spread across his little smile. “Gon?” he replies, and the way he says my name -- like it’s a novelty, a precious discovery -- makes me tingle with excitement. It really  _ is  _ him. 

“It’s been so long! I didn’t know you went to the same college as me. How have you been?”

Killua shrugs, twirls a lollipop between his fingers. His backpack moves slightly as he does -- black, like the rest of his outfit. “I’ve been alright. What about you?” 

I can sense a lie when he says that -- my mind jumps back to that day he suddenly disappeared. Both he and his sister vanished, but no search warrant was ever initiated. “I’m okay, still getting used to college life,” I reply. I don’t know what to say next, but I don’t want to end the conversation here. Not after such a long time without him, dreaming of that smile he once gave me that made the day worth going through. “Wanna grab a coffee and catch up on each other?” I shoot my shot and hold my breath, fully expecting the thorns to close upon the rose. He never talked to me outside of the bus, after all.

He smiles, and I’m breathing again. “Sure, why not. My treat. I know a good place. You would love it.”

It makes me feel warm all over when he says that, though it’s such a stretch. I actually don’t drink coffee, and most coffee places make it too sweet for me anyway. It doesn’t matter, though, because all I think is that he’s back with me, and he’s talking to me. The questions burn on my tongue, begging to pass through my lips -- “what happened to you? Why did you leave? Why did you disappear? Who did those bruises to you? Are you happy?” -- but I keep my mouth shut. I just got him back. 

I can’t lose him. 

“Oh, by the way?” I ask, taking my phone out of my pocket. 

“Hm?”

“Can I get your number?” 

“Sure.”

One more anchor to him. 

* * *

I thought no coffeeshop could ever faze me, but he nailed the one he brought me to. 

A cat café. 

I can barely resist when we enter the cozy, dainty café. There are already two cats lounging over the bar counter. A waiter then shows us our table, farther into the café, and I’m two steps away from throwing myself all over the floor and letting the fluffy felines adopt me. But I know animals; cats don’t like to be bothered, and they are reserved. Much like Killua. So I channel my impatience and sit at our table, a quiet one far from the hubbub. A tabby and a Persian are cuddling not too far from us. I can’t help the grin. 

“This is the best place,” I say, relaxing into my armchair and taking the menu. 

“Wait till you try their desserts. A real killer.”

“You still have a sweet tooth,” I muse, and the thought makes me smile. Killua looks like a rockstar, all leather and torn jeans and tattoos, at once edgy and elegant, but he still has his cute little habits. “I guess some things didn’t change.”

I don’t have time to regret my words when his gaze hardens; his guard melts as soon as it rises up. “Yeah.” He nods toward the menu. “I recommend their chocolate parfait.” 

“Okay, I’ll try that.”

Once the waiter takes our orders, I’m afraid the two of us won’t know what to talk about; but conversation comes easier than I thought. “I never thought I’d find you here of all places,” he says. “So we go to the same college huh?” 

I’m glad Killua talked first; I would have felt intrusive if I asked all the questions. I want to ask why he looks so much freer and healthier, but I keep those thoughts to myself. “Yeah, we do. I major in biology, what about you?”

“Art.” 

“Art?” I repeat, a little dumbfounded. Back then, he used to win prizes in math contests. I thought he participated because he liked them. It never occurred to me it wasn’t by choice. I wonder how much of him I truly saw through his mask. “I didn’t know you liked art.”

“I’ve been drawing since I was old enough to hold a pencil.” His gaze flicks to his phone, looking for an anchor. “Always loved it.” His voice is stable but vulnerable as if he quelled its tremors. 

“I didn’t know,” I say again. 

“Because I never told you.” 

I frown. “You never talked much about your own life.” A cat hops on my lap, his claws prickling a little through my jeans, until he lies down, purring softly. I grin. “Or about you altogether, really. And then you disappeared so suddenly--” I stop, wondering if I should sugarcoat it, but it doesn’t feel right to not be honest. With anyone else, I would have felt out of place, rude even. Most people can’t handle my brutal candor. But it’s him. I feel like I can be me around him. “So I’m glad to see you again,” I finish, looking up at him. 

Killua doesn’t seem to mind. “You missed me?” he asks, and he looks so charming at that moment, head resting on his hand, lips stretching in a teasing, boyish smile, and those eyes that won’t leave mine… A shiver rushes through my back, like the ghost of how I wished he would touch me. 

“I did. A lot.”

His eyelids twitch, his smile widens and warms. “Well, I’m here now.”

I didn’t realize when he said that that he was making a promise. As the year passes and he stays by my side, seasons flipping through like pages in a book we’re both writing, I learn he always keeps his promises. 

* * *

There is a kind of softness in the dawn that I can’t find anywhere else. When the world slowly comes to life, birds rising along with the sun, leaves still dripping with dew and mist, pastels coloring the horizon beyond the buildings at my window. 

Everything is quiet and slow. 

I take my bag and head to the park near the Social Sciences building. The air is crisp and fresh, just invigorating enough without being biting. I didn’t sleep much that night, insomnia keeping me awake till late, so the cold is welcome. I took bad habits in high school when I had to stay up to study; now even when I’m tired, and even without the dread of failing math classes, rest doesn’t come easy. 

I find Killua sitting in a small clearing bordered by trees and bushes of flowers, his tools sprawled on the blanket splayed on the grass. He is focused on his sketchbook, his perfect profile bent over it, studying it religiously. His fingers are already smudged with color. I see his leather jacket thrown across the blanket, leaving him in a purple turtleneck whose sleeves he has rolled up. When I look at him, dressed like a rockstar but focused like only children know how to be, I can’t help but smile. 

I say nothing as I sit next to him, opening my biology book. He doesn’t need my greeting to know I’m here, and I don’t want to disturb the atmosphere. We keep to ourselves for a little while, him coloring his drawing and me studying for my biology exam, until he stirs next to me. His yawn makes me chuckle. 

“How are you already tired?” I ask, though I have to lock my jaw to not give in to a yawn of my own. 

“You say that as if you weren’t texting me at 3 A.M. huh.”

“Well, you were awake too if you saw it.” 

“I was working on my art project; it’s due in two weeks and I’m falling behind.” He sighs dramatically. “Honestly, do I look like I care about dadaism?” he deadpans with a scoff. “I care about daddy-ism only.”

I snort. “You’ve passed up on an opportunity to stay quiet.”

“You envy my jokes. Also you stole that line from me.” 

I want to roll my eyes, but I end up smiling because it’s true. “I spend too much time with you, is why.” 

“And you enjoy every single minute of it,” he says with a smug smile. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

Killua’s smugness wanes into shyness. He looks so young then, so ridiculously cute, I almost forget he’s dressed to kill. 

But then he finally processes what I said, and the cuteness is gone, replaced by his killer stare. The one that smolders with that sexy aura I know nothing to do with because I didn’t even know I was capable of sexual desire until him. 

Eh, it’s not like I needed my brain anyway. I die every day watching his lean muscles in too-tight shirts and jeans. When he sweeps his hair back and reveals that undercut, tattoos-covered biceps flexing in front of my poor thirsty eyes, I lose a little of my lifespan. And when he looks at me like he is right now, I could melt into a puddle and thank him for it. He does things to me I never felt before. His gaze has more power than anyone’s touch. So when he touches me, his hand grazing my chin to move it a little, I need air. “Don’t move, okay?” he says, something taking hold of him. The air has changed, but it’s not back in my lungs. 

I comply nonetheless, slowly working on my breathing while he shuffles in his bag. All he did was touch my face, pinky brushing my jaw; why am I getting so worked up? 

When he finds what he’s looking for -- a phone -- his motive dawns upon me. “Is it okay?” he asks as he places his phone facing me. 

I blink. “You-- you wanna draw me?” 

“Yeah.”

A part of me is a little uncomfortable. I’ve never been insecure about my looks -- my aunt raised me to be a confident guy -- but I never considered myself… art-worthy. And yet, at the same time, pride buds into my chest. I don’t know what it is he sees in me, maybe the angle or the mood, but I… I want to be stamped into his sketchbook. As if by being there, I offered him a part of me. 

Mostly, I want him to claim me. 

“Sure.”

Killua snaps a few pictures across different angles and shows them to me. Though I am no artist, I get why he likes the setting. The rosy sun is rising behind me and its shadows pouring through the foliage paint tattoos on my skin. The gold halo kisses my side profile, and my freckles pop against the light. I look a little ethereal, a little less human. Like a fae from the books that his sister is always reading. 

I never saw myself like that. 

“Thanks,” he says as he sits back, his phone right next to him. Then he gets to work, wordlessly. 

I don’t hear from him for a while then, and the impatience is killing me. I can barely comprehend a single line from my notes as I peek at his sketchbook. 

He works fast, directly with his coloring pencils -- ‘lineless art’ he calls it. He uses browns and golds, rosy tones and reds and purples. Emerald green on the leaves and a pale blue for the edges of the sky diluting from rosy dawn to blue hours. In the end, it’s useless to try to focus when all I can think of is how he sees me. 

His drawing is loyal to the picture he took, but there’s something fairy-like about it. When his thumb smudges the color on my drawn cheeks, I can almost feel his touch, as if he had infused magic in that drawing. From time to time, he looks up from his drawing, and instead of checking for the reference on his phone, he’s staring directly at me. I let him. When he looks at me, I feel important. 

“You’re beautiful,” Killua suddenly murmurs as he adds final touch-ups to his drawing. The sky is now entirely blue, the sun still pale but no longer blushing. 

My heart is a furnace, my breathing becomes shallow. At that moment, with his baby blue eyes pulling me into his space, the only way I could catch my breath is by stealing his. 

So I do. 

I don’t think this through. I can’t. I just lean into him and kiss him like he’s the air I need to live. I cup his cheeks and thread my fingers into his long hair and I kiss him. When I hear him moan softly into my lips, I am unraveled. My fingers brush his neck, his tug at my roots. He answers me as if he needed me, just like I need him. 

When we break the kiss, neither of us moves from where we’re sitting. I’m still processing what I did -- and what he did. My skin is afire everywhere he’s touched me -- my cheeks, my neck, my arms, my scalp. I swallow; I can still taste the sweetness of his tongue on mine. 

I don’t dare to look at him but his gaze is calling me, so I look up anyway. 

His pupils are dilated, a cat on the prowl. His lips are a little pinker, and I remember then I nibbled on them. My cheeks warm at the thought. I almost want to apologize, but then he grabs my jacket and pulls me to him, and our lips crash together once more. 

Thoughts drift away. There’s only him and the urgency in his kiss. He pushes his sketchbook and pencils away and gestures for me to come closer; it’s only when I’m straddling him that I grasp what he wants to do. He grabs my hips and his lips dive into my neck, mouth sucking languidly, teeth scraping lightly against my skin. I gasp for air. Desire stirs into me, pulsing through me like a dying star, and yet I feel so alive. I rock slowly into him, needy like I’ve never been. He lets me. 

I stopped counting time a while ago, so when he pulls away from my neck, lips leaving butterfly kisses on my throat, chin, and then lips, I don’t know how long we’ve been kissing. I don’t need to. 

It’s only hours later, when I got back to my dorm after he left for a therapist appointment, that I saw he did exactly what I wanted him to, with that bruised kiss stamped on my neck: he claimed me. 

* * *

It takes me a few more months of kissing Killua, under the moon or in my bed or at the park or in his empty classroom as I pick him up to go to town together, to learn that he’s not nearly as dominant as he pretends to be. In fact, it kind of makes me lose it when we make out and he suddenly gets shy and bratty. I’ve never seen someone with such an interesting duality, at once adorable and so hot it should be illegal, confident yet insecure, and, of course, dominant and shy. It’s like he has a switch. Some days he grabs his strap-on and decides he wants to own me, others he begs to be owned and I’m always happy to comply. 

I go along with the flow. I’m versatile; I can adapt to his changing mood. And, really, I love every minute of it. Routine is boring. Killua is anything but a routine. 

The year ends on a positive note as we both pass our finals with flying colors and celebrate with the most satisfying sex I’ve ever had. Not that I had a lot of partners; he was my first. But I’m not going to pretend our first time was mind-blowing when I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do. I had never bothered to try; before him, I had no interest in romance or sex. I was fine just by myself. He’s the first person to ever instigate this need to be cuddled or fucked, depending on the day and hour. And  _ god  _ does he provide. 

Fortunately, Killua had enough experience to carry us both, with people of all genders. I find it quite impressive. The… things he does with his tongue. And his hands. And his hips. And his back, arching into my chest. Just like he is right now as I grab the sheets and release a long, long breath, my eyes shutting close as I come into him. He throws his head back, crying out as my fingers work on his wet clit until he shudders with an orgasm. It feels so euphoric, so dreadfully good, the two of us locked in the intense pleasure, I almost blackout for a moment. 

When I open my eyes, I barely realize he’s moved away. I must have napped a little. He slips on his boxers and grins as I stare at him. We just had sex, but I still feel a little timid seeing him undressed. He’s terribly beautiful and I’m an idiot in love. As he notices me staring, he turns toward me, and I get a full view of his tattoo. Roses with their thorns, twined into an anchor splayed across his hip. When I asked him what it meant, he just told me in a past life he must have been a pirate. 

“All good?” he asks. He’s smirking a little, too confident for his own good. He knows what his body does to me. 

“Yeah, yeah.” I nod toward him. “Are you sure it’s okay that I… uh… in you…?” I whisper as he slips into the blanket.

“That you came in me?”

“... Yeah. That.”

Killua chortles as he snuggles close to me. “I’m on birth control; we’re fine. Not ready to be a dad anyway.” 

I relax into his embrace. “Imagine if I had a kid. They would ask me for help with their homework and I’d be like, go ask your dad, I don’t remember the Gauss pivot.” 

He snorts, rests his chin on my chest. “Gon, are you saying you want kids with me?” 

My cheeks warm, but I don’t know if it’s because of the embarrassment or of my own grin. We’ve been together for a few months, and we’ve known each other for almost two years now, not counting the bus rides crush in high school; I can see myself spending my life with him. Building a house together, with a huge studio he could paint in. I’d give him the room with the best lighting and exposure. We could have a dog, maybe a cat, and I’ve always wanted a henhouse and a vegetable garden. Aunt Mito used to have one and the pot-au-feu she would make lulled my childhood winters. “I don’t know if I could handle kids,” I say honestly. “Dogs, yeah. Kids… I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t want them to inherit my… math issues? I mean, I don’t know if learning issues are in my genes but I wouldn’t wish what teachers made me go through in school on anyone. Also…” I purse my lips. 

Killua doesn’t say anything. He just softly kisses my chest and smiles. I want to melt every time he gives me those quiet yet so meaningful gestures of support. 

“Also,” I continue, feeling brave under his comforting gaze. “I don’t want to be like my dad.” 

“You think  _ you  _ would be a deadbeat dad? You, the boy who rescued a kitten and cried the day you found its owner and had to give her away?”

I blush. “I mean, maybe there’s a bad seed in me. I don’t think my dad is terrible, we do have a friendly relationship now that he’s back into my life, but… I would be lying if I said it didn’t affect me before. Knowing he was somewhere out there doing something that was apparently better than raising me. I never wished he would be back, I just wondered if I wasn’t good enough.” I pause, inhaling deep. “I inherited a lot from him, Killua. Including his wanderlust. What if deep down I’m unreliable and fickle?”

Killua places another kiss on my chest. His lips linger. He is so precious. “I never told you why I disappeared in high school, did I?” he changes the topic, but somehow it feels connected. 

What’s his point, and why open up now after months of silence? I don’t dare to voice those thoughts; I want to nurture whatever demon he entrusts me with. “You didn’t,” I reply. 

He adjusts his position on the bed, his arms snaking around my waist as he buries his head into my neck. “My dad’s an abusive asshole. He thought that because he paid for my top surgery, I should do everything he wanted. Which meant giving up on art and inheriting the family business. Everyone said he was a cool, progressive dude just because he did one decent parenting thing, but really he was just a douche.” Killua propped himself on his elbow and looked me in the eye. “Sometimes I wonder too if his bad blood flows in my veins. Do you think I’d beat up my kids because they refuse to follow my plans for them?” 

“No, of course not,” I say, but I’m too awestruck by his confession. I always suspected it -- the bruises on his arms were too strategically placed to be from clumsiness -- but hearing it out loud makes it all too real. Fury bubbles in my chest, but his winter gaze tames it. 

“There you have it.” He smiles, though it looks sad. “We don’t have to be like our fathers. We could reinvent fatherhood. Call it daddy-ism.”

“Killua, no.” 

He laughs to himself, sorrow melting into mirth. “What, it’s a brilliant idea.” He touches my cheek, thumb caressing it softly, and peers into my eyes. What does he see there? Does he find solace in my eyes like I do in his? “You’re the most thoughtful and loyal person I know, Gon. You’re so solid and down-to-earth, whenever I feel like I’m drifting, I think of you. You’re my anchor.” My heart swells. I’m overflowing with love. It bleeds through all of me, fills me up from head to toe until I become a sea he could throw his anchor in. “It will take a lot more than just me saying you’re not a fickle bitch for you to believe it, but, I hope my words can help a little.”

“They do,” I reassure, and I mean it. It’s rare for him to say that much; he’s a gestures kind of guy. So I drink his words and they wash through me. “ _ You _ do.” 

His smile grows gentle, tender even. “Good.”

I fell asleep in his arms that night, lulled by the sound of his heartbeats. It’s rhythmic and soft, like a rasp on a door. So real, nothing could emulate it. His skin is warm, his nails gently scratching my back hush my noisy thoughts. 

He came into my life like a beacon beam sweeping across a sinking ship. So many times I thought I would drown, overwhelmed by everything that seemed so natural to others yet unfeasible to me. A shipwreck among hundreds of vessels. But he lent me a hand. He kissed my bruises and let me kiss his. He held me together whenever I became too scattered. 

He is my anchor, as much as I am his. 

“I love you, Killua,” I say as I slowly drift away. 

I am almost gone when I hear him say softly, “I love you too.”

  
  



End file.
